The silence in the scrapyard after the customs officers left was profound, broken only by the ragged sound of Prakash Rao's breathing and the distant, indifferent hum of the city. Harsh stood frozen, the image of Officer Desai's cool, evaluating stare burned onto his retina. It hadn't been a look of mercy. It had been the look of a man who had just found a much larger lever.
The adrenaline receded, leaving a cold, sick dread in its wake. He had nodded. He had agreed to a transaction whose price tag was blank.
"He knew," Rao whispered, his voice trembling as he pushed himself off the tires. "He knew exactly where to look. The ghost… he must have…"
Harsh's head snapped toward him. "What?"
"The tip," Rao said, his eyes wide with realization. "It had to come from someone who knew. Who else? The ghost… Venkat Swami… they must have tipped off customs."
The logic was cold and brutal. It was a test. Or a punishment for moving outside the established broker system. Or simply a way for Venkat Swami to tighten the screws, to remind Harsh who truly held the power. By threatening to take everything, they forced him to willingly offer up even more.
Rage, hot and blinding, surged through Harsh. He was a puppet, and they were gleefully twisting the strings, watching him dance toward his own financial ruin. The gold was safe, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. He had saved the shipment only to hand over its value to a different master.
He had to move. Desai's "misdirection" wouldn't last forever. He turned to Rao, his voice clipped and urgent. "We need to get it out. Now. Somewhere else. Somewhere he'd never think to look."
An hour later, the toolbox of gold was buried deep within the stinking, fly-blown confines of a municipal garbage dump on the outskirts of the city, hidden under a reeking mound of rotting vegetables and discarded plastic. It was the last place any respectable government official would ever venture. The price of the rickshaw ride and the bribe to the dump-site watchman had further diminished their precious, dwindling cash reserves.
The immediate crisis was averted. The gold was hidden. But the specter of Desai's unspoken demand hung over him, a sword of Damocles.
He had to pay. And he had to pay fast. The "donation" would need to be monumental to compensate for looking the other way on a gold smuggling bust. The usual five percent was a joke. This would need to be a significant chunk of the gold's very value.
But the money from the Us column was gone, converted into the very gold now buried under trash. The business was running on razor-thin margins to feed their audacious plan. They had nothing.
There was only one, horrific option left.
The next day, Harsh went to see Chiman. The broker's office felt even smaller and shabbier than before. Chiman looked up from his ledger, a smirk playing on his lips. He'd already heard the whispers. The customs raid at Prakash Rao's yard was the talk of the underworld.
"Harsh Bhai," he said, his tone oily. "I heard you had some excitement. A close call, they say."
"I need a loan," Harsh said, cutting through the pleasantries. His voice was flat, stripped of all pride.
Chiman's smirk widened. "A loan? But you are a big player now, Harsh Bhai. Dubai routes. Big shipments. Why do you need a loan from a small-time broker like me?"
"How much for the gold?" Harsh asked, ignoring the taunt. "The gold I already have with you. As collateral. I need cash. Now."
Chiman leaned back, steepling his fingers. This was his moment. He could smell the desperation. "The gold is good collateral," he purred. "But a loan against it… very risky for me. The price fluctuates. And with all this… excitement… the risk is higher. The interest will reflect that."
"Name it," Harsh said, his stomach churning.
Chiman named a figure. The interest rate was so astronomically high it was outright theft. It would swallow most of the profit from the first gold shipment even if the price skyrocketed as predicted. He was lending Harsh a noose and charging him for the privilege of putting it around his own neck.
Harsh didn't flinch. He didn't argue. He just nodded. "Done."
The speed of his agreement gave even Chiman pause. The broker's smirk faltered for a second, replaced by a flicker of respect for the sheer, desperate audacity. He counted out the cash—a thick stack of high-denomination notes. It was a fraction of the gold's value, but it was what Harsh needed.
Harsh took the money. It felt dirty. It felt like failure.
He didn't go back to the alcove. He went straight to the customs house. He didn't request a meeting. He simply asked the clerk at the front desk to deliver an envelope to Officer Desai. It was not addressed. It contained only the stack of cash, every rupee he had just borrowed from Chiman.
He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked out.
An hour later, a different boy—older, cleaner than the last one—found Harsh in the alcove. He handed him a single, folded piece of paper.
Harsh unfolded it. There was no message. No thank you. No acknowledgment.
There was just a number.
A new, much larger number, written in neat, precise numerals. It was his new monthly "donation" to the departmental welfare fund. The price for his continued existence. The cost of Desai's conveniently timed blindness.
Harsh looked at the number, then at the boy who was already walking away. He felt nothing. No anger, no fear, no despair. He was numb.
He had used bribe money to save the gold at the last second. But the rescue had bankrupted his future. He had the gold, but he was deeper in debt than ever before, shackled to a loan shark and a corrupt official, all to maintain the "privilege" of being exploited by a crime lord.
The victory was complete. And it tasted like ash and blood.
(Chapter End)